own, myself!"

Denny had taken a table next but one to the west end of the room, and
was drumming his fingers impatiently on the cloth when I entered. He
wanted both his dinner and the latest news about Neopalia; so I sat
down and made haste to satisfy him in both respects. Travelling with
equal steps through the two matters, we had reached the first _entree_
and the fate of the murdered Stefanopoulos (which Denny, for some
reason, declared was "a lark") when two people came in and sat down at
the table beyond ours and next to the wall, where two chairs had been
tilted up in token of preengagement. The man--for the pair were man
and woman--was tall and powerfully built; his complexion was dark, and
he had good, regular features; he looked, also, as if he had a bit of
temper somewhere about him. I was conscious of having seen him before,
and suddenly recollected that by a curious chance I had run up against
him twice in St. James's Street that very day. The lady was handsome;
she had an Italian cast of face, and moved with much grace. Her manner
was rather elaborate, and when she spoke to the waiter, I detected a
pronounced foreign accent. Taken altogether, they were a remarkable
couple, and presented a distinguished appearance. I believe I am not
a conceited man, but I could not help wondering whether their thoughts
paid me a similar compliment, for I certainly detected both of them
casting more than one curious glance toward our table; and when the
man whispered once to a waiter, I was sure that I formed the subject
of his question. Perhaps he, also, remembered our two encounters.

"I wonder if there's any chance of a row?" said Denny, in a tone that
sounded wistful. "Going to take anybody with you, Charlie?"

"Only Watkins. I must have him; he always knows where everything is;
and I've told Hogvardt, my old dragoman, to meet us in Rhodes. He'll
talk their own language to the beggars, you know."

"But he's a German, isn't he?"

"He thinks so," I answered. "He's not certain, you know. Anyhow, he
chatters Greek like a parrot. He's a pretty good man in a row, too.
But there won't be a row, you know."

"I suppose there won't," admitted Denny, ruefully.

"For my own part," said I meekly, "as I'm going there to be quiet, I
hope there won't."

In the interest of conversation I had forgotten our neighbors; but
now, a lull occurring in Denny's questions and surmises, I heard the
lady's voice. She began a sentence--and